Patchwork Part 1

8/14/2019 Patchwork Part 1

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Part I: Childhood 1

Part I:

Childhood

Aaron (Harry) Englander andMary Englander, Jennys Parents

Patchwork Part 1.indd 1 9/11/2009 12:01:25 PM


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Patchwork and Ornament 2

My grandmothers bed was high, elevatedabove the patterned linoleum oor,

iron-ramed, painted again and again,the mattress thick and unyielding,

covered with quilts made rom letoverscraps and squares o abric, pillows

stacked against the headboard.Was it high so she could store the thick

stoneware crocks o black grapesturning to Passover wine?



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Part I: Childhood 3

I Dream of Warsaw

I dream o Warsaw, listing in my mindIts variations in many

Languages: Polish, Austrian, French, Italian,Greek, English, all slipping through my

Toughts as amber beads slide on a silken cord.

Te varied names o Warsaw are as the manyNames o my mother: Mary, Miriam, Marya,

Marie. Which one is my mother? Is she Polish,Yiddish, Hebrew, or English or all combined?

I dream o the Warsaw I never knew; the city sheLet as a young woman to come to America.

I yearn to know that city. I say lets goTere, we could do that, we could start in Prague and

Ten on to Warsaw and to Sokolov to see the shtetl sheWas born in, the shtetl where her mother ran a bakeryAnd kept a cow that my young mother milked.

What do I yearn or, what do I want?I know that the ghetto, all o it,

Was bulldozed into dust, paved over in a nal orgy ohate by the Nazis against the Jews, killing themby disease and by torture, by cholera, typhus,

pneumonia, starvation,

hunted like animals in the woods, killed in slave labor camps,sent to the death sheds oreblinka, shot on the streets, andAter all that, all that killing, every physical trace o them

had to disappear rom the earth,everything had to vanish;

No shops, no homes, no schools, no libraries, no actories,

No temples, nothing, nothing, nothing let at all.



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Now there is no memory o people who lived in that place, who werekilled in that place; no monument, no marker, no commemoration o theirlives and deaths. Other Poles live in new houses built on the new streets,built on the dust o the streets o the Jews, people who know nothing about

the events o 1942, who were not taught about the Holocaust by parents orby church or government.

Philip asks, do I want to see this, this negation o the lives o my ellowJews, o the amily my mother let behind? I we went to Warsaw, what doI want o Warsaw, what is it? ell me, help me, he says.

Okay. Okay. And I am surprised with the answer I make to him.

What I want, what I yearn or, is to nd my mother, to nd her inthe Warsaw o 1910, to know her as a young woman. I want to go to her

street, to enter the apartment building, to walk through the stone court-yard, and to climb the narrow iron stairs to the rooms she shared with mygrandmother Feiga, Aunt Celia, and Uncle Aaron.

I want to knock at the door and to be invited in. I want to smile atthem and tell them who I am, to tell my young, not-yet-married motherthat I am Jenny, your daughter-to-be rom America. I want to tell themabout my husband, my children and grandchildren. I want to give themthis news as a git, to let them know that their history is alive and pre-

served. I want them to be happy with me and with my news. I want mymother to smile at me, to be proud o me, and to bring me to each amilymember, saying, Tis is my daughter-to-be. Look what a blessing she is tothe amily, see the wonderul world she has made, am I not blessed to haveher as my daughter. I want her to laugh and rejoice with me.

Oh, how I want that.

I would go to my grandmother who would be ull o lie, and I wouldkiss her delicate, smooth cheek and talk with her in Yiddish, and she would

smile at me and love me as she never did in my lie. My mother wouldinvite all the aunts, uncles and cousins to meet me, and even the babySymcha would be there. He would later be sent to Auschwitz by the Nazis,but then he would still be a smiling and playing baby.

How would their apartment be urnished? Would it look like mygrandmothers in the Bronx? Would there be lace doilies on the dark tablesand clear glass bowls o ruit? Would there be walnuts, almonds, and ha-zelnuts served with wine? Would there be sponge cake and honey cake andshiny red apples, raisins, and gs in small bowls? Would there be hot teaserved in glasses?



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Part I: Childhood 5

Perhaps my mother would show me the quarter with all the shops, thekosher butcher, the bakery, the dry-goods shop, the cheder1, the temple. Ihope she would show me the city, the boulevards, the parks, and the ac-tory where she worked. I would walk with her on cobblestone streets, join-

ing the stream o people, listening to their conversations, understanding allthe Yiddish. Perhaps we would go to the ood markets and I would realizethat the street market on Jennings Street in the Bronx was similar to thestreet market in Warsaw. I would know my mother. I would know her as Inever did in lie.

Tere it is: what I want, and what I cannot in any way have.What I want is antasy. Te early years o the 20th century are gone.

Te early years o my lie are gone. All the relatives are gone; my grand-

mother, my aunt, my mother, my ather. Only memory exists.Philip asks me, do you want to go to Warsaw, do you eel that is the

answer or you? ell me. I want to help.I answer Philip, no, a trip to the Warsaw o today is not the answer.

Tere is no answer. I am lost.No, no, no trip to Warsaw.

1 Elementary school that teaches Hebrew and Judaism



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Introduction to the Study of Polskiego

Kledy JA byo mode, bya szczliwym dziewczynwhen I wasyoung, I was a happy girl.

Tus Momma began her story o her lie in the Poland o 1905.I was born in Sokolow, o the county Seidlice, a arm town o about

36,500 peasants living under the regime o Czar Nicolas II, a mild tyrantwho was dominated by the chamberlains o his court. My mother ran the

bakery, and I used to help Momma with selling the crusty loaves. I used todrive the cow out to pasture and milk her.

But nally, money ran short and we let Sokolow to live in Warszawa,Polands city o culture. Tere was Marszalkowska Boulevard, the exclusivestreet in the city, and the Hotel Polonia with 215 rooms. I loved to walkthrough the tumble-down back alleys and see them widen into the broadavenues that Warszawa is amous or.

We lived with my uncle Harry on Novilopie 15, and I made six

rubles ($3) a week. I had to stop school, or my job as a seamstress was tootiring. Still, six rubles is not enough, and at sixteen I decide to leave Polandor the golden streets o America.

As I sat in the third-class carriage speeding toward Germany where Iwas to board the boat, I thought o Polands great orests o pine and r andbirch, orest unto orest, o Polands undulating plains and rich sandy soil,o the rain that alls so steadily, o the river Bug that ows near my home,o our great musicians Chopin, Rycki and Zelenski, and o our estivaldays with our beautiul olk costumes. I elt sad at leaving my native land,

but happy in the knowledge that there were better times ahead.



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Part I: Childhood 7

Grandmothers

Some people have grandmothers whobake pies, apple pies, and cool them on roughtables in ront o windows open to air ullo hay and grasses in hot Midwestern sum-mers, with the smells o earth and cattle. Tegrandmothers serve icy glasses o lemonade tograndchildren playing on shady, wide veran-das. Te grandchildren take trains to visit inthe summers, traveling rom the cities to thearms. Te grandmothers teach the grandchil-dren arm things, cooking and sewing. Teylove each other and part with sadness.

I have summers in the South Bronx, with windows open on the street and sullen heatstreaming rom gummy asphalt. I sit on the

windowsill o the re escape, my veranda andporch. I spend the summers reading and drawing, visiting the library andmuseums. In the street, the peddlers drive their horse carts, selling sh,ruit, vegetables, and household goods. Te horses stand still while thepeddlers cry, Fresh ruit rom the arm, buy my ruit. Te smell o dungwats upstairs. Te children in the street below play hopscotch, jump rope,and stickball. A gypsy woman in striped skirts and gold earrings beckonsrom her open store door.

My grandmother lives two blocks away. Her sullen anger equals theheat o the street. Tere is no warm welcome here in her bony arms. Nogirl children or her; pisher (little pisser), she calls me. She is Old World.She speaks only Yiddish and Polish. She and I do not speak when we visit,and I dutiully kiss her wrinkled cheek. Feiga, my grandmother, is incom-prehensible to me. I know nothing o her past in Poland or in the lie sheled in New York beore I was born. All I know is her anger at my mother,and her disdain or me and my ather.

How can I tell people who have grandmothers on arms, Yankeegrandmothers, about this grandmother?

Aunt Celia,Grandmother Feiga,

Mother Mary



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The Good Jewish Ladies of Allerton Avenue

I would stand at a window in our Free-man Street apartment and watch or mymothers return rom her Tursday trip to atemple on Allerton Avenue. She went thereto collect ood or our amily, gits o oodto the worthy Jewish poor o the Bronx

rom the more worthy Jewish ladies o theemple.

Te Jewish ladies o the emple hadhusbands who still had jobs in the ever-worsening Depression o the 1930s. Terewere temples closer to us, including a largeone a block away, but the one on Allerton

Avenue was solo in running what we now call a ood bank. Kosher ood

was given on Tursday so that Shabbat dinner preparations could proceedwithout delay on Friday.My ather was a heart patient. He had angina pectoris, had many

heart attacks, and was hospitalized or long periods. Because o his health,he was unable to work. We were on home relie and received ood stampsor groceries plus surplus commodities in sacks, such as corn meal andgrainy skim milk solids. Te Allerton Avenue ood made a great contribu-tion to our meals.

My mother went on the trolley carrying two abric shopping bags that

she made rom scraps o curtain materials, ashioned with side panels andstrong wide handles.

In the winter, the Freeman Street hill near our home was a terror orme, slick with ice and snow. I would get down the hill by hugging the a-ades o the small shops that lined the sides o the street. Yet each week, mymother went down that hill and then came back up. I would see her headrst in a hat or scar; then her ace, always stern, then her body emergingwith her bags in tow. I would wave to her as she got closer to our apartment

house. She would climb the two ights o stairs to our place.



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Part I: Childhood 9

She did this every Tursday to provide whatever she could or heramily. When I was a child, I didnt think o the cost to her sel-esteem, owhat all o thiscan I call it begging?must have done to her. But then,her whole lie had conspired to cheat her o sel-esteem. She was beaten

by her lie, the way it would unold: the sick, invalid husband with hearttrouble, the asthmatic child, the poverty, the lack o hope or the uture,and the shame o never having enough extra ood or guests, not even orcoee and cake. Her pride, gone.

And yet, and yet, she did it, every week, every week, she went withher submissive ace and her two shopping bags, got on the trolley, walkedto the temple, took the ood or her amily, and thanked the good Jewishladies o Allerton Avenue or their help.



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Learning to Read

First grade. P.S. 66.Im having problems learning to read in school. My parents are called

to the school to discuss the problem. We are given ash cards with instruc-tions to drill, drill, drill.

Ater supper, Poppa and I sit at the kitchen table, round and oak withheavy eet, and bathed in a pool o yellow light. Patiently he starts using

the cards.My mother is irritated and reuses to be involved. Shes your daughter,she says to my ather, meaning, shes just like you. So you do it. Leave meout o this!

Night ater night we work with the cards. I am anxious, trying hardto please, to understand. Te letters, C, A, R, , B, O, Y. Te sounds o theletters. My ather patiently using the cards.

Ten it happens.Te C A becomes a cat, sleekly moving against the wall. Words

tumble rom the cards, becoming pictures in my mind. I am exuberant.Te light is intense, yellow, glowing. Te moment becomes a door, andthrough it I walk into rooms opening into other rooms, taking me urtherand urther rom the oak table and my patient, smiling ather.



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Part I: Childhood 11

The Child

Te child is alone and cold.

It is dark, the moon is bright

Te child stands alone

In the sleeping room.

Where is her ather?

Te mother, her eyes glitteringAnd sharp like pieces o ice

Answers the child

Te ather had to go away.

Te ather was here but

He could not wait or you.

Te mother says the ather

Had to go away, had to leave.He could not stay.

Te child hears the mother

Te child remains still

Te child wants to scream

At the mother with her sharp

Black eyes ull o knives.

Te child speaks to her motherWhy didnt my ather want

o see me, why doesnt he

Love enough to wait or me.

Te child screams she

Wants her ather, says

I love him, why did he

Go away rom me.



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Te mother looks at the

Child with her black sharp

Hard eyes and says your

Father is a bad manWhy do you cry or him

You are bad too, just

Like him, just like your

Father and she screams

At the child, she screams

You ather will not come!

I will not let him back.You will learn to live

Without him orever.

Te child moves away rom

Her mother, araid o her

Anger and her sharp eyes.

Te child touches the steamer

runk behind her, the metalHasps cold against her hand.

Te moment remains or her

Forever locked in a black box

Inside a steamer trunk in

A dark sleeping room.

Editors Note: At age ve, Jennys parents separated as a result o a nan-cial dispute. Jenny does not say how long her ather was gone. She writes,Eventually my ather returned to live with us, but my home lie never im-proved. My mother remained terribly volatile, angry, and argumentative.



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Kumquats and Tangerines Long Ago

I see a certain public service spot on television once in a while. Tecamera moves in on a black woman who sits at a kitchen table in ront oa window. Te light rom the window concentrates on her as she peels atangerine. She puts the curling peels on a small plate in ront o her. She isdeliberate in her movements and speaks in a low voice to the camera. Shetells the viewer that she is happy to receive ood rom the ood bank and is

grateul or the help, especially or the git o tangerines. She loves the tasteand smell o the small ruits. She says this ruit is an extra, a git o love andcare. I listen to her and remember my youth and my gits o tangerines andlove received in the cold o a New York winter.

As a child on home relie, I remember getting the skim milk powderthat rarely dissolved completely and corn meal, which were the staples oour diets. Sometimes my ather would stop at a day-old bakery and bringhome a layer cake. It cost very little, and we ate it or dinner. Relatives hear-ing about this did not stop to think that we ate old cake or dinner becausewe did not have money or better ood, but thought we were embezzlingmoney rom home relie in order to have these luxuries.

In the Depression, ruit in the winter was expensive and rare. Myathers relatives, much better o than we were, took pity on us and some-times sent us money and clothes. My athers aunt, Becky Diamond, andher husband Morris went to Miami or the winter. Tey would send us alarge box o ruit early in December, a box packed tightly with wonder-ul, ragrant citrus ruits. Tere were oranges, small and large, smooth and

pebbly; graperuits both yellow and green, some misshapen, dierent romthe usual smooth graperuit; tangerines sweetly bitter, elegant to peel andeat small section by small section; and kumquats, tiny oval ruits toppedby smooth green leaves, bitter to the taste but beautiul to look at and oh,so sweet-scented. We would pile the kumquats in a bowl and set it on ourkitchen table, enjoying the look and the odor all through December untilthe tiny ruits dried and had to be discarded.

We ate the citrus ruit all through December and cherished Aunt

Beckys git o care and love that enriched our lives.



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Amber Light Through WhitePainted Windows

In the depth o the Great Depression,money and jobs were hard to come by.Many amilies resorted to home relie,as did mine, but not without shame andguilt. As the Depression worsened, storeowners went out o business and stores

were let empty.One day as I walked to school, anempty store had become a shul1, lledwith rows o plank benches, and shelvesagainst the walls stacked with worn prayerbooks. Men, Orthodox Jews in long blackcoats and hats, stood davening (pray-ing), with the singsong o prayers audiblethrough open doors.

Tere were prayers three times a day:Shacharis, Minchah, and Maariv2. almud study groups ormed. Men at-tended the shul most o the day. In the winter when it was dark beore veoclock the dim lights in the shul glowed amber, luminous through thewhite painted glass storeronts. Te shuls in these small storeronts seemedoreign and exotic to me, as i lited rom history books o Poland and Rus-sia. I didnt understand their Yiddish and since I was a girl, the men avertedtheir eyes rom me.

As we headed towards the Second World War, the Depression eased.Jobs slowly became available. Te small storeront shuls began to close.Where did their congregations go to study and worship and teach? Testores were empty again, with no more amber light glowing in the nightrom the windows or rom the men who prayed and studied with pure,heartelt religious ervor.

1 Jewish house o prayer and study2 ranslation: morning, aternoon, and evening



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Untangling Mother

I need to write o my mother, to write o the sweetness, the goods andthe bads, o the diculties between us, and o the raging that to this dayleaves me bafed, rustrated, and angry. She haunts me. I cannot x on her.I do not have a whole picture o her in my heart. Instead I have pieces oher memory, like parts o a complex jigsaw puzzle. I need to gure out thewhole o her rom the parts.

Tere is no way to go back to her, to ask i my memory is correct, oreven to ask other relatives o their memories o her in order to compare,to try to adjust. It is too late; no one is alive to ask. I am alone with mychildhood memories. I need to go back, to search my heart and mind, toexamine the mother who was my rst love and my rst teacher, to try tounderstand her. I think that i I concentrate on her, in vivid episodes omemory that are markers in my own development, perhaps I can, withthese snippets, build a picture almost as I make collages, pasting smallpieces o paper down, eventually making a whole work.

I have a powerul memory o a dening moment in my childhood.I was young, perhaps seven or eight years old. It was either the end oNovember or early December in New York City, cold enough to wearwinter coats, but not yet cold enough or snow to all. It was a weekdaynight, perhaps a Tursday evening. My mother rushed me through dinnerand into my coat, leaving my ather to watch my younger sister.

We hurried through the hal-dark, then up stairs to the elevatedsubway train. Te train ran past Simpson Street, Intervale Avenue, and

Jackson Street, then roared down into the subway at 149th Street and 3rdAvenue, becoming an express ater 125th street. Te next stop was 86th

Street, which is where we got o.Now the streets were dark. My mother walked ast, too ast or me,

and I called to her to slow down. She wanted me to hurry; we were not tobe late.

A huge building loomed up at us, enormous with great columns andclassical pediment, and a majestic staircase leading to great doors. I reached

the top o the stairs, and my mother ushered me inside.



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I stopped still inside the entry. An amber-lit space lay ahead o me.Music lled the air. I looked to see where the sound was coming rom andound musicians on the balcony. Tey wore black suits and white shirts,which seemed strange to me. I had never beore seen so many men wearing

the same suits.My heart hammered in my chest.Te light, the sound of music, the

beauty o the moment, and the museum all lled me with a joy that over-whelmed. I knew this moment was important. I heard an inner voice say:this is what I want. I always want such beauty in my lie. I stood transxed.My mother tugged at me, led me to a seat, took my coat, and settled us tolisten to the concert. I looked around the room, xing the moment so thateven now, so many, many years later, the vividness is clear and resonant.

Directly ahead, I saw another wide ight o stairs anked by stonestatues. Large tapestries o orest scenes, hunters and dogs, owers, andanimals covered the walls. Folding metal chairs set out on the stone oorwere lled with people. I heard the sounds o the William ell Overture,amiliar to me rom radio broadcasts. Tat was the only piece o music Irecognized. I listened to the concert with great concentration.

We returned home late at night, and I am sure I ell asleep against mymothers body in the subway car. I never orgot the concert or that amber

light that illuminated me and sent me on a lielong path.Te question that nags at me in my maturity is, why did my mothertake me to the concert? Tis is the only memory I have o a special timewith her separate rom my sister or ather. I have the eeling or the hopethat she was pointing out to me something o great importance. Perhaps itis my need to eel a special bond with her. I she wanted to go to hear themusic, she certainly could have gone by hersel. Why did she take me? Didshe sense a common bond?

Did I ever tell her how important that memory was to me? Did I ever

thank her or that? Did the despair o my amily, the anger about our situ-ation, wipe this important night out o my consciousness? Tere is no wayor me to go back to her, to say thank you, Mother, or that sweet moment.Tat is my regret.



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Pneumonia

Near the end o December 1945, I became sick with bronchitis, verysick. I spent days in bed struggling against the disease. At that time, nomedicines existed or magical cures. One either recovered with the aid opalliative measures, or one got sicker and sicker, until sinking into a comaand dying.

My ather took care o me during the day until my mother camehome rom work. It was not my rst bronchitis attack; that problem hadstruck me many times beore.

One day, my mother became quite concerned about me. I burned withfever, 105 degrees, and I slept all day, in and out o consciousness. She ranupstairs to use Mrs. Gras phone to call the doctor. He came over with hislittle black bag, looked me over and called the ambulance. I was taken toLincoln Hospital. I do not remember the trip.

I was admitted and placed in a ward, my bed near the nurses station.Te ward consisted o two long rows o beds against the walls, with an ad-

ditional row o beds down the center o the room. So many sick women.Te room was in hal-light, yellow light. Moaning and occasional screamspunctuated the night. Occasionally orderlies wheeled beds out o the ward;bodies on the beds were covered with sheets. Te beds moved quietly onrubber wheels.

I was quite sick. I saw roaches climbing all over me, my bedwasI hallucinating? Or was it real? I thought I was in hell and called or myather again and again. Would he come and take me home or would he

abandon me here in this gehanna? I wanted to get out o that place, to gohome. I thought, will he come, or have I been so bad that he wont come?

During the night, the nurses gave me some pills, large ones, and toldme that these were large aspirins.

Te morning came, then lunchtime and visiting hours. I watched theclock. I may have become more lucid. My ather did come to see me. Hedidnt take me home, though. I stayed or two weeks and got well. When Igot home, I elt weak and down in spirits.

I stayed home rom school or another week. I had missed a lot oschool, but I still elt tired and depressed and wanted another week at



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home. My parents did not agree. I went back to school, but that springsemester was dicult or me. Tis was most likely my rst bout o depres-sion.

I wanted to change schools, to go to Straubenmueller extile High

School. I I transerred I would have to give up a year o high school. As Iwas a junior then, that would be a dicult thing or me to do. My motherwould have to support me or another year, and she wasnt too happy aboutthat. She got more and more upset with me, screaming that I would neverget a job, that I was lazy, a no-good just like my ather. She tore into me somuch that I was ready to quit high school and go to work, anything to gether to stop her abuse and to leave me alone.

I tried to get a job in silkscreen and had my working papers ready

when rationality broke out in me. I realized what a mistake leaving highschool without graduating would be. I canceled all the transer plans, allthe quitting plans and stayed on.

I went on a diet, my rst, against the wishes o my parents, and lost50 pounds. I guess they wanted a at, unhappy daughter who would neverleave home. But I did; I recovered rom the pneumonia, I recovered romthe depression, the rst and others, and rom the plague o overweightIrecovered and would leave them behind me...but I took them with me.



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Grapes and Walnuts at

My Grandmothers Table

My grandmother, my athers mother, was named Jenny. I was givenher name in accordance with Jewish tradition to name children ater de-ceased amily members. Her sweet spirit, kindness and angelic goodnesswere celebrated in stories my ather told me in the darkness o childhoodnights. She died at twenty-nine, when my ather was a boy o ten. He washer rstborn, and he mourned or her throughout his lie.

His bedtime stories were long Gothic tales with images o childrenin Victorian orphanages and a cold, heartless stepmother who avored herown children, rejecting her husbands other amilies. Te stepmother omy athers stories was based on my grandathers third wie. Tese storiesbecame my personal mythology, powerul enough to rank with the mythso Greece and Rome or with the collections oGrimms Fairy Tales, booksborrowed on weekly trips to the library.

My athers bedtime stories were veiled and obscured by mists o longago. He was orty-our when I was born. He would not or could not tell

me what I needed to know about my grandmother. I needed her to becomereal to me, a complete person, not the angel image my ather presented tome, her namesake. I knew that I was not her reincarnation, and that I wasnot an angel. I know now that he could not make her real, even to himsel.

As I listened to my athers clouded memories I had to deal with myother grandmother Feiga, alive, real, not a able or myth; diminutive butintractable, demanding, arrogant. She ought constantly with my mother,reducing her to tears and cursing her. I never understood what crimes my

mother had committed against my grandmother, but the castigation wenton and on.

I yearned or a normal amily lie and I dened normal as having aloving grandmother who welcomed me when I would visit her, and reli-gious celebrations held in tandem. It never happened.

But there was one moment o joy in her home.One bright and sunny day during Passover, when I was sixteen and

my ather was well, my amily dressed up and walked the ew blocks to my

grandmothers house to share Yomtov with her and my aunts amily.



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A amily who lived in the building came to pay a holiday visit. Teirson Walter was about a year older than I.

We all sat at the table, drinking my grandmothers homemade wineand eating honey cake, grapes, walnuts and almonds. Te adults spoke to-

gether in Yiddish and English. Walter and I talked about high school andbooks and riends, and soon I realized that he was paying attention to meas a young man would to a young girl. I ound this to be heady and excitingbut also scary, very scary. Tis was the rst time a boy had been attentiveto me, and I elt ear and exhilaration. I blushed, my pulse accelerated, andsuddenly I developed an asthma attack. I hid it as I normally hid these at-tacks by talking in short sentences and laughing so I could get a breath. Mymother elt that having asthma was just short o having a venereal disease,

a shonda, a shame, and no one was ever to know.I never saw Walter again but I understood the larger meaning o this

short encounter with a young man. Grapes and walnuts at my grandmoth-ers table would be part o my memory, always, o adolescent awakening.

Patchwork Part 1

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Transcript of Patchwork Part 1